Oblivion Walker
by Y-ko
Summary: "When thou enterest into Oblivion, Oblivion entereth into thee." She is Dovahkiin, the one who must save this realm. But gods cannot be killed by men or mer alone; to slay Alduin, she will need to draw strength from beyond Mundus, no matter the cost to her own soul. Covers mainly the Daedric and College of Winterhold quests. Lore-heavy. Lots of Dunmer glorification.
1. Kaal

"_When thou enterest into Oblivion, Oblivion entereth into thee."_

_- Nai Tyrol-Llar_

The setting sun casts the world in orange and pink as she grips the edge of the weathered stone altar. She keeps her eyes lowered, focused on the shadows that spread around her hands. It's too much. She's a mage, she's supposed to be in control of her own head, but the past several months have left her mind in tatters.

"You remember when I met with Nelacar," she murmurs, "and he told me, 'Don't serve the Daedra. They care nothing for our lives.' Only because he doesn't understand, he _can't_ understand, he's not… I'm sorry. That's beside the point." She presses her lips together and finally looks up to the face of the statue. Azura, the Queen of Dawn and Dusk, Mother of the Rose, mother of her people—Azura is cross with her. It's the only explanation for all of this. Maybe she lost her favor when she lost the Star, or maybe it was when she let the Thalmor break her, but either way, she's suffering divine punishment.

It's the small details that haunt her thoughts. The slick feel of another man's blood as her neck lay across the chopping block. The rot of decay and upturned earth as Alduin worked his profane magic to raise his servant from the dead. The crunch Lydia's body made as it split apart in Sahloknir's jaws. At night she revisits the Thalmor prison cells, and during the day the winds carry the foreign calls of dragons to her ears. She can't understand most of them, but she knows they're laughing, mocking _her_, the fated Nordic hero who happens to be a sorry little elf.

"I'm a rotten champion," she continues. "And I'm sure I deserve all of this, but I can't…"

She can't continue like this. They've pitted her against Alduin, with the fate of the world at stake. She needs to know that somebody is on her side—a sign, some direction on where to go, what to do. But the marble eyes of the Prince gaze past her, unswayed. Her pride crumbles, and she falls to her knees in the snow, reciting prayers in Dunmeris until the stars are all risen and the howling wind has frozen her tears to her cheeks.

* * *

Returning to Winterhold is little better than a death sentence, but Indrele has escaped from those before. She won't spend one more day waving around a cheap Imperial broadsword while lamenting what the Thalmor took from her. Some of her equipment might still be in the College, and even if she can't get to it, she can lift some soul gems to make more.

There is, of course, the small matter of how she'll get into the College. It's one of the most well-protected buildings in Skyrim, and she knows little of stealth or thievery or even illusion magic. But she has little left to lose; after facing dragon after dragon, escaping death from their claws and teeth by inches and watching their acts of unspeakable savagery play again and again in her mind, the thought of a guard's sword through her heart no longer frightens her. It might even be welcome.

She can't stay at the Frozen Hearth—Nelacar would be all too happy to give her away—so she uses telekinesis to jar the lock of a small, abandoned cottage that sits close to the cliff. After some debate, she lights a fire in its hearth; even if someone sees the smoke, it's the dead of winter, and they surely won't bother to investigate.

She's wrong. In the middle of the second night, as she tries in vain to sleep on the dusty straw mattress, a sudden draft stirs the embers in the fire. She sits upright, drawing her sword in one hand and casting a candlelight spell with the other. Blinding iridescent light floods the room, and as her eyes adjust, she spots the intruder: a short, tawny Khajiit in College robes, the hood drawn low over shifty eyes. Its mouth twists upward in a feline imitation of a smile.

"This one has a bet to collect from Enthir."

"You," she hisses. "I swear, if you tell anyone I'm here, I'll…" What _will_ she do? Go to the guards? What guard will care about his deviance and petty theft when she's wanted for murder?

J'zargo only chuckles. "Your secret is safe. Khajiit will not tell."

"Then why did you come here?" She sheathes her sword, but keeps her hand resting anxiously on the hilt. "And if it's a long explanation, shut the door. It's damned cold out."

J'zargo strides inside and latches the door behind him, draping himself lazily across the one chair that hasn't been broken down as kindling. "You remember what they were doing when you left here, yes? The excavation of Saarthal?"

"Arniel's pet project," she scoffs. "Don't tell me they actually found something?"

"We do not know. Several days ago, they removed us all from the ruins. They refuse to tell us why, but it must be important." His eyes gleam in the spell-light.

"So you want to go down there and find out what it is, and whether or not it's worth stealing."

"Precisely. But the way may be dangerous. Many undead lie in such ruins."

So this is what he wants from her. She sighs and tries to run a hand through her hair in frustration, only to remember for the hundredth time that it's all been shorn close to the scalp. Damned dragons. "And why would I agree to help you?" Besides the fact that he could end her life with a single word to the jarl.

"J'zargo would not ask if he had nothing to offer in return." He reaches into a bag at his side and pulls out a misshapen parcel wrapped in parchment. It pulses with magical energy that she recognizes immediately; she snatches it from him and tears it open. An eight-pointed star of precious geodes and finely-wrought metal, divinely connected to the goddess herself. To hold it in her hands again, after thinking it gone for so long… She traces its facets with whispered prayers, her mind at peace for the first time in months.

Azura has not forsaken her.

"How did you get this?" she whispers, clutching the Star to her breast and feeling its aura resonate with her own.

"The Thalmor spend much of their time looking down their noses at others, but rarely notice when something goes missing from underneath them." His smile widens, revealing sharp, pearly teeth. "Is it a deal?"

Of course she agrees. There is no other answer she can give. And so the next night J'zargo takes her to the excavation site, where two other students, Brelyna and Onmund, are waiting. They glance at her, at J'zargo, and then at each other, but say nothing. Indrele wonders if J'zargo has bribed or blackmailed them into coming as well.

Among the four of them, Indrele stands out. She's older than the rest of them, more road-worn, the only one wearing real armor, and, of course, the only one to have been arrested and sentenced to death. More pressingly, she's the only one who's never been inside Saarthal. Brelyna, Onmund, and J'zargo each hold the rank of Apprentice, a level where they're able to handle dull tasks and labor without getting themselves killed, and not important enough to complain about it. As a Scholar, Indrele has tried to avoid field work as much as possible; she's seen enough of tombs to last a lifetime. And so, as they travel through heavy iron doors and across precarious wooden walkways, she sees the ancient city for the first time.

For all its fame, Saarthal looks much like any other ruin, albeit bigger—much bigger. In the colossal antechamber, a complex maze of crumbling stone pillars and walkways stretches into the dust and blackness. While the few remaining magelights of the excavation team provide just enough illumination to navigate, the air is too thick with dust to see the surrounding walls or the ground floor below them. It's disconcerting, like standing on a platform in a blank and endless void.

"We need to split up," says Brelyna, summoning a vibrant orb of candlelight. "See if you can find anything that looks odd. I'll head north to Arniel's section." Onmund and J'zargo nod and go in different directions. Indrele, unfamiliar with this place, stays close to Brelyna. She'd always liked her—a true Dunmer from the old country, with a proper family tree and magical lineage traced back to the once-great House Telvanni. She wishes she could claim the same things about herself. The twisting paths of bridges and stairs seem endless, intersecting one another at odd junctures or ending abruptly with sheer drops to the invisible ground. It seems that one could wander lost on these passages for years, until the first careless step or rotting board spelled an instant death. Brelyna, however, appears unfazed, navigating the maze with confidence and purpose.

"This place is enormous," Indrele mutters thickly as they descend a spiral staircase. Brelyna remains silent until the path evens out to another bridge across the abyss, and then stops and turns on the spot.

"We're glad to see you alive, of course," she ventures. "But the Thalmor… aren't known for their leniency. How did you get away?"

Indrele grimaces. "A wild string of coincidences and sheer, dumb luck." She assumes her frantic prayers had paid off, and _somebody_ had been looking out for her that day (perhaps Nocturnal), but they seem to have abandoned them since.

"Hm. The agent they sent to replace the one you killed is even worse. He's always watching, won't leave any of us alone. Mirabelle's at her wit's end."

The small complaint sets her temper flaring. "Well, I'm sorry I couldn't kill every member of the Dominion for you," she snaps. "Maybe take matters into your own hands and chop up a few of them yourself. See where that gets you."

They lapse into an uncomfortable silence until Indrele speaks again, rubbing her temples with a sigh. "Sorry, I know you didn't mean it that way. Recent events have just been very trying."

"I can only imagine." No, she can't. Everything in Indrele's life has been shattered. Now instead of being a respectable mage (who had _just a little longer_ to wait until Sergius Turranius expired and the position for Head of Enchanting opened up), she's regressed to a vagrant sellsword with a bounty on her head. It's Morrowind all over again, except she's thirty years older and tired, far too tired to build another life for herself.

She still maintains that disemboweling that Thalmor advisor was worth it, if only for her honor, but it becomes a little less so with each passing day.

They're walking again, and finally, they can see one of the walls. The walkway extends to a hallway carved into the stone. "Arniel was working here. He was convinced he was onto something, and didn't want anyone else near him." The cramped corridor shows signs of the conjurer's obsessive research. There are small tables littered with quills and parchment, bearing scribbled-out notes and wild theories about the construction of Saarthal. Indrele flips through them as Brelyna continues on. Soon, there's a gasp of surprise from her direction.

"I don't know how new this is, since he's only allowed me into this section a few times," Brelyna explains when Indrele comes over to investigate. She motions to a pointed archway in the wall, its edges still holding jagged chunks of stone. The path beyond is pitch-black. Brelyna shoots a ball of magelight into the tunnel, which disappears into the dust.

At the very least, it's worth a look. After some shouting and confused wandering, they manage to gather the other two at the entrance to the passageway. J'zargo, armed with foolhardiness and nightvision, enters first. Onmund blanches. "Wait! Are we sure this is a good idea?"

J'zargo turns around and cocks his head. "The Nord would come all this way only to turn tail and go back home?"

"We—we don't know what we'll find in there," he stammers. "There could be traps, monsters, curses…"

"Yes. Monsters, magic, treasure; that is why we are here. What is the problem?" His tail flicks impatiently.

"Really, Onmund, from the way you're behaving, one would think you'd never explored a tomb before," Brelyna says smoothly. A mischievous smile plays across her lips. "Or haven't you?"

Onmund's face flushes bright red. "I'm a Nord, all right? We respect our dead."

"Destroying undead abominations is just another way of honoring your ancestors," Indrele says in a practiced, even tone. Is he really going to argue about this with a pair of Dunmer?

He opens his mouth to protest, but freezes when Brelyna touches his arm. "It's all right. If you're scared, you can just wait here for us."

"No!" he says, a little too quickly. "It's fine. I'll—I'll go with you."

With Onmund's reluctant agreement, they begin the trek through the tunnel. Like every other path in this place, it's sloped and curved, spiraling steadily downward. The only sounds are the shuffling of their footsteps and the occasional drip of unseen water. As they progress, the air takes on the unmistakable sour tang of death and decay, and after what feels like a mile of walking, the shaft opens up into a circular chamber lined with coffins. It seems this is a tomb after all.

J'zargo sniffs the air. "There are only dust and the dead here," he says. No sooner does he finish when the sarcophagi explode. Draugr shamble from their resting places, hissing and growling, their eyes glowing with unholy blue light. Onmund yelps and J'zargo snarls. Indrele draws her sword.

It's simple enough to overpower draugr. They're stupid and slow, and they burn like kindling. Indrele engages the first zombie with her sword, the runes of its fire enchantment glowing and searing through flesh and sinew. The others are kept at bay by a wall of fire sprayed from her left hand. She's still out of practice for melee combat, but as the only properly-trained and equipped battlemage among them, this is the role she's stuck with. J'zargo, Brelyna, and Onmund fight from afar with destruction magic; lightning bolts and fireballs crackle past her face, some a little too close for comfort. One after the other, the undead collapse into piles of burning skin and ichor.

Just as the last draugr is about to fall, she feels a sudden shift in the air. Something subtle and pointed cuts through the roiling chaos of destruction magic. Despite her years of study at the College, she doesn't recognize this school at all. The space around her grows thick with nearly tangible psychic pressure, thrumming with such intensity that she can feel it against her eardrums. She whips her head around, expecting to see one of the spellcasting draugr guardians. Instead, there is a man standing on the battlefield—not a draugr, not even a Nord. His face and robes are golden in the firelight and for a sickening moment, she thinks that the Thalmor have caught up with her. But his face lacks the scowl of the Justiciars; his eyes are calm, almost serene. The sounds of battle fade away as the other mages and draugr fall suddenly still and silent; even the spells have frozen in mid-air.

He fixes on her, his placid gaze unexpectedly troubling. When he speaks, his tone is even and impassive, his face unreadable. "Hold, mage, and listen well. Know that you have set in motion a chain of events that cannot be stopped."

"You mean this Dragonborn business?" she interrupts. "I'm well aware—"

He continues as if she hadn't spoken. "Judgment has not been passed, as you had no way of knowing. Judgment will be passed on your actions to come, and how you deal with the dangers ahead of you. This warning is passed to you because the Psijic Order believes in you. You, mage, and you alone, have the potential to prevent disaster. Take great care, and know that the Order is watching."

Psijics? Those odd monks? Before she can ask what the order wants from her, the air ripples and the man vanishes, as though he was never there. The strange magic disappears as well, and time starts again. J'zargo's firebolt continues into the draugr as though it had never stopped.

"Did you see that?" She looks at each of them in turn, but their faces are blank. None of them are even aware that anything unusual has happened.

Just what she needs. Another vague prophecy that only _she_ can fulfill, another order of secretive recluses dogging her every move. In her frustration, she launches a fireball at one of the withered corpses on the ground, exploding it in a spray of flaming, rotted flesh. Onmund starts to complain about the unnecessary desecration of corpses, but Brelyna shushes him hastily.

* * *

The rest of the ruin is a disappointingly typical tomb, and she's almost forgotten about the Psijic mage by the time they reach the final chamber. It's a giant room that houses a colossal, glowing sphere, engraved with ancient runes and emitting immense power.

It also holds the guardian of the barrow. It's a hulking draugr in ancient ebon armor and a sharp-horned helmet, wreathed in swirling frost and shooting electricity from its staff. A glowing ethereal link connects it to the orb and repels every one of her attacks, as well as the magical bolts from her party. She narrowly sidesteps a blow from its axe and swears in frustration.

"The orb! He's drawing power from that orb, you s'wits!" Her old vernacular comes out with the stress of the fight. "Hit it with lightning, sapping, anything to drain it!" By Azura, if she dies _here_, of all places, she's coming back for at least one of them. Mercifully, Onmund and Brelyna listen, sending streams of sparks from their hands to the globe. J'zargo can't stop taunting the walking corpse long enough to contribute, but at least he's diverting its attention.

She steps back a few paces, turning her mind inward from the battle and to the deep pool of magicka at her core. Without her spellcasting catalysts, she's used up most of it already, but there's just enough left for this. She begins to shape it into one of the many spells she knows, feeling it writhe and tremble in response. This one is a hex to deplete the target's magical energy; primarily meant for enemy mages, but it works for this as well. She focuses on the concepts of the incantation—a withering, desiccating force that evaporates magicka like water from the Ashlands. The spell spreads from her chest through her arms with a warm and comforting sensation and gathers at her palms, burning and struggling to be released. At last she lets it loose with an arcane word and gesture, and the spell flies towards the orb.

After a few moments, the effects of their combined spells begin to show. The shining thread between the guardian and the sphere fades to nothing, and J'zargo's next firebolt burns some of the skin from its decayed face. Indrele moves in to attack the draugr once more, but her sword's cheap enchantment has run dry, and the dull blade barely cuts its flesh. The hoarfrost radiating from the draugr's body seeps through her gloves, numbing her fingers and weakening her blows. Still, she continues attacking, trying to bluff it into keeping its attention on her. It swings its axe in a downward arc, which she raises her sword to block, but the blow hits with bone-breaking force. It tears her weapon from her hands and sends pain shooting up her arms. The next strike sinks into her shoulder, denting the flimsy iron armor and sending her to her knees.

Enough of this. Bidding a short prayer to her ancestors, she uses her last resource. The power of the ghosts of her clan swells within her and bursts through her skin in the form of blazing flames. She draws the steel dagger from her hip and plunges it into the draugr's gut with a scream, the fire traveling through the blade to engulf its putrid body. The draugr shrieks as it burns, until a well-aimed firebolt from one of her companions blasts off its jaw. It stumbles back under the barrage of magic, and she withdraws her dagger to strike it again and again, splitting open its stomach to release rotted, burning entrails.

Finally, the draugr's body is enveloped in shimmering violet light as its corrupted soul is torn from its body—the other effect of her dagger. It swirls aimlessly in the air until she holds up Azura's Star. The artifact sucks the soul into its depths and pulses with contentment; it has been empty for far too long.

Onmund approaches to ask about her injuries, but she brushes him away in favor of the orb. "I suppose the Arch-Mage will want to know about this." Her heart clenches at the thought of Savos Aren. The last time she saw him was the day the Thalmor came for her—she still remembers his eyes in that moment, the way they pierced through her drugged haze and burned into her soul. She supposes his last memory of her is the image of her on her knees, bound and gagged and dying of hypothermia. It's still a prettier sight than what she is now.

Savos Aren is the true reason why she's still alive.

She distracts herself with the impersonal task of gathering and dividing up the treasure. Indrele takes the soul gems and a share of the gold and jewels, leaving the bulkier items behind. Brelyna picks up the staff of the draugr guardian, and J'zargo pulls a fractured amulet from its neck. Onmund takes nothing, watching them loot the tomb with the pale expression of a condemned man.

Overall, she decides, the trip went unexpectedly well. Nobody is dead, and they've made a historical discovery, albeit one that they can't take credit for without risking expulsion. Again, she's reminded of her days in Morrowind, but in a more positive light. The thrill of successfully completing an old-fashioned dungeon crawl—with only gold on the line, and not the fate of the world—is something she's almost forgotten.

But even here, she can't escape the business of the Dragonborn. As they search for a quick exit from the barrow, all-too-familiar whispers begin to tug at her. To her right is a grey stone wall inscribed with the unmistakable language of the dragons. Biting her lip in resignation, she waits until the others have continued down the passageway, and then approaches, placing her hand on the one rune that seems to stand out from the rest. The effect is immediate. A stream of ancient knowledge enters her mind, the lore of long-dead men and beasts, drowning out all other thoughts as it swirls around in her head.

_Iiz_. Ice, firm and enduring like the permafrost of the tundra, wickedly cold and sharp like the deadly glaciers in the Sea of Ghosts. With some meditation and reflection, she learns, she can use this word to call upon the rime and freeze an enemy solid.

Ice has never been her specialty. She prefers to burn things.

The world fades back into view as somebody touches her arm. She blinks and sees J'zargo standing beside her. Her hand is still pressed against the wall, her mouth silently forming the new word. The cat's eyes gleam in unrestrained curiosity. She only shakes her head and walks towards the exit, drawing her hood tighter against the frigid winds of Winterhold.

* * *

_Apologies for any dialogue that's salvaged from in-game text. I've tried to keep it to a minimum._

_My thanks to all the people who helped me with this, knowingly or otherwise, including Chimera Belle, thequixoticbedhead, Fastern, Dunmer Cuss-Word, and others. __**The next chapter will be posted only after I find a beta.**_


	2. Sunvaar

_Sorry for the wait, but it turns out Skyrim betas don't exist. This chapter is probably the worst one in the entire story. Just stick with me and we'll be through it soon enough._

* * *

_"And even were the Daedra to speak the truth, how can we know if they know themselves, or that there is any truth about them that is to be known, or are all arrangements among the Daedra protean and ever subject to change?_

_In short, what is to be known is little, and what is to be trusted is nothing."_

_- _Aranea Drethan,_ Varieties of Daedra_

She hasn't slept through the night since Helgen. The nights are when they come for her. The void is pierced by cruel golden eyes, and then she's bound once again, hanging by her wrists or strapped to a rack. Instruments of glinting elven metal tear and crush her flesh and bones. Each is designed by the brightest scientific minds to cause indescribable pain without the release of death. Arcs of electricity dance across her muscles, wracking her body with spasms and convulsions like a sick marionette. She screams until her lungs give out, and her chest begins to swell with a suffocating _force_. It builds until it chokes her throat and constricts her heart, and then finally bursts from her body with an explosion that shatters the torturer's cell. Now she's flying over rolling plains and tiny wooden buildings, the wind rushing under her wings. Her _Thu'um_ echoes from the mountains and sends humans scattering like skeevers underneath her. When she lands, dirt and sod are upturned under giant talons. Men, women, and children are burned alive and torn apart by her teeth, and she tastes singed skin, leather, and steel. It brings a level of satisfaction she's never felt before; she is an avatar of destruction, a god, and none can stand against her.

She wakes thrashing and tangled in her bedroll, her skull splitting apart as her dragon and mortal minds war for control. In those early hours of the morning, she struggles to remember whether she's mer or beast, and it's becoming steadily harder to decide.

* * *

"_Look around you, lady. Right now Skyrim is host to giant flying lizards and two-legged cat-men, but you won't believe one talking dog?"_

"No. No, no, absolutely not, this is ridiculous. I refuse to be led into a den of vampires by a talking mutt."

J'zargo flashes that ever-present, maddening smirk. "Where is the harm? Imagine, if he is who he claims to be…"

"_If_ this is truly the hound of Clavicus Vile, then this is worse than just a waste of time. Have you read the stories? Do you know what happens to fools who rush into deals like this?"

"There is no deal. We are simply reuniting this poor, lost dog with his master. A good deed, nothing more."

She wants to grab him by that detestable mustache and shake him until he sees reason. She's followed him all the way here to Ivarstead on a whim, _his_ whim—he's investigating some legendary amulet and she feels she owes him at least one more favor for the return of her Star. Now he wants to drop that and go off chasing Daedra? "This, J'zargo, is why you'll never make Evoker. You have no focus."

"Titles do not grant power." J'zargo's smile broadens, and he turns back to the dog before she can sputter out another protest. "We would be happy to speak with your master."

There's no getting out of it. J'zargo is set in his path, locked on to the scent of treasure like a starving predator. Nordic barrows or Daedric shrines, what does it matter? So long as it's not dragons…

And so, she allows herself to be led into a den of vampires by a pair of talking beasts.

She has no sympathy for vampires; they're all scum. Skyrim's own breed are particularly nasty fiends. Lacking the subtlety of their Cyrodilic brethren, the Volkihar hunt by hiding under the ice of frozen lakes and seas, and then snaring the unwary travelers who pass above them. Common folk scoff and call that a legend, but she still has the scars on her leg and arms from the one that ambushed her on the ice floes of the Sea of Ghosts.

Fortunately, their tainted blood burns just the same as any other undead's.

J'zargo shows unexpected prowess as they cut through the vampires, curved sabre and destruction spells gleaming. She had expected him to be like the rest of the mages, cloistered and frail, but he charges into battle with the confidence of a veteran. His strokes are deft and efficient, his footwork agile and balanced even in heavy steel armor. Between the two of them, each of the undead are put back into their graves.

It turns out that there really is a shrine to Clavicus Vile in the center of the cave. When she spots it, she's momentarily caught up in surprise. The form of the Prince is carved elegantly from marble, not stubby and impish as others have portrayed him, but svelte and powerful. His horned head is turned upward haughtily and his raised hand holds his legendary Masque aloft. She wonders who in Skyrim would be moved to create such a beautiful tribute, given the way Vile likes to treat his worshippers. Perhaps it was an effort to appease him and unmake some bargain that had been struck.

Her chest tightens at the thought. This won't be her first audience with a Daedric Prince, but she had nothing to fear from Azura. Vile holds no love for her, or anyone else.

"Clavicus Vile," J'zargo purrs once they reach the shrine. "We come to make a request."

At first, there is no response. Then the whispering starts, like wind, but the air in the cavern is deathly still. It grows into a voice that seems to come from just behind her head.

"_By all means, let's hear it."_ The voice is oily, but grating, and blares into her ear with the grace of a drunken Nord. It reminds her of a certain Breton shopkeep back in Whiterun. "_Go on. It's the least I could do, since you already helped me grant one final wish for my last worshipers. They were suffering from vampirism, you see, and begged me for a cure. Then you came and ended their misery! I couldn't have planned it better myself."_

Oh, excellent, he's going to be sarcastic. Because conversing with a god isn't difficult enough already. She casts a glance at J'zargo, who's practically beside himself with glee. By Dagon's eyes, he's going to damn them both. "Don't say anything stupid," she hisses through clenched teeth. "You just want him to take the dog back."

"_That insufferable pup? Forget it. Request denied. No deal."_ There's a pause filled only by an odd hum in the air, and then he speaks again._ "What about you, elf, do you want anything? Tell me your heart's desire, and I will make it so."_

"I'm no fool, Vile. I know what happens to those who make deals with you."

"_So there's nothing you want? What a shame. I suppose a Dragonborn like you has quite enough power already, hmm?"_

She flinches and keeps her eyes fixed straight ahead as J'zargo's gaze bores into her skull. He's taunting her and she will not, _will not_ fall for it. "Just take the dog, Vile."

"_I already said that there's no way I'm taking that mutt back. I'm glad to be rid of him, even if it does mean I'm stuck in this pitiful shrine in the back end of… Nowhere."_ She can hear his thoughts turning around like the gears of a Dwemer machine. _"Well, perhaps there is a way for him to earn his place back at my side. Maybe. But no promises." _

"What is it?" J'zargo asks eagerly.

"_There's an axe, an incredibly powerful axe. It's powerful enough for me to have quite a bit of fun, indeed. Bring it to me, and I'll grant you my boon. No strings attached. No messy surprises—at least, not for you."_

"Lord Vile, this one would be pleased to retrieve this axe." J'zargo gives an exaggerated bow, his words thick with mirth. Even this is just a farce to him.

"_As I recall, it's resting in Rimerock Burrow. Barbas will lead you right to it. He might even earn his place back at my side."_ The voice fades, and the air falls silent once more.

* * *

Rimerock Burrow is apparently on the other side of Skyrim. Barbas leads them for days and days across hills and through forests. Even riding conjured horses, the trip is slow; the snow of Sun's Dusk obscures many of Skyrim's narrow, winding paths. By the time they reach Dragon Bridge, it's been nearly two weeks of slush and misery, and Barbas has not shut up for one minute of it.

"_Giants over there. Have you ever fought a giant? Great for seeing a lot of Skyrim really quickly, so long as they don't kill you. I met a frost giant once; now those are vicious…"_

Sometimes they ride ahead of Barbas on the road, and he seems to disappear behind them, giving them a few minutes of blessed silence. But he always returns around the next bend, appearing from foliage or rocks to greet them with a bark and another boring monologue. It's no wonder Vile wants him gone.

The only useful thing that comes out of his mouth is the history of this Rueful Axe. Supposedly, a wizard named Sebastian Lort had a daughter who turned into a werewolf. He pleaded with Vile to give him the means to end her curse. As Barbas tells it, _"Clavicus gave him an axe."_

A few days past Dragon Bridge, the howling wind begins to blow from the west. As it does, it picks up an odd susurrus—a set of syllables, garbed nonsense, but with the same cadence as other words in the dragon tongue. Peering into the mountain ahead, she sees the traditional arches of a Nordic tomb rising from the snow and trees.

She's only heard this once before: at the top of High Hrothgar, where all the winds of Skyrim meet. It's what the Greybeards call "the whisper of a word." There's a word of power hidden away in that ruin, and somehow, it's calling to her. It's just another distraction, she tells herself. Keep moving; she doesn't want to extend this trip any further. But the eldritch souls inside her rebel, and her mind begins to itch, the way it used to upon spotting a forbidden spell tomes on the library shelves. It—_she_ wants this scrap of knowledge, and an all-consuming fire flares up within her. The cold, their quest, and Barbas' nattering fall away, and she begins to turn her ghostly steed along a fork in the road…

"Where are you going?" J'zargo's voice interrupts her trance. She struggles briefly for a good excuse, but then decides he doesn't deserve one.

"There's something I want to investigate in that ruin. Follow, or don't." She expects J'zargo to argue, given that she's been complaining about pointless diversions this whole time, but he's oddly silent as he steers to follow her. She chooses not to question it. Barbas is considerably less quiet, yapping about Nords and ruins and somesuch. Why is he even coming with them?

Like any other ruin, there are bandits camped around the outside. They carve through them easily. Barbas, to his credit, is very keen on helping them, even tearing out the throat of one felled archer. The inside seems to be a typical barrow, nothing as interesting as Saarthal. As they pass through it, they find a banquet hall filled with rancid cheese wheels, a traditional puzzle room, and, of course, dozens of undead that spring from their alcoves to attack them. J'zargo's behavior is far more curious than the tomb itself—his keen eyes spot each pressure plate and tripwire, and his deft telekinesis makes short work of any locks.

As he disarms a soul gem trap with a flick of his wrist, she brings it up. "You've done this before."

"Of course. Even a mewling Khajiit cub could pass through this dungeon unharmed. The ancient Nords were not so clever."

He's right. Tombs have a certain pattern, one that she memorized a long time ago. There's nothing special about this one, aside from the whispers—and the _stairs_. Why, after two weeks of horseback riding that's left her lower half numb, did she have to pick the one dungeon with more steps than High Hrothgar? They climb upward through draugr, and then through stronger draugr, spiders, and even _more_ draugr, until they reach a particularly wide and ornate staircase. Its steps are lined by statues that have crumbled too far to be recognizable. J'zargo strides ahead of her, as he has for some time now. Just as he's about to reach the top, he motions for her to stop. "There is something foul ahead."

"_Foul? And what do you call all the zombies we had to kill to get here?"_ Barbas gives a loud bark that bounces off the stone walls of the cavern. Indrele and J'zargo both hiss for him to be quiet, but it's too late. A guttural growl and the creaking of old bones and armor signals the waking of the last undead. A silhouette appears of a towering draugr wearing a helmet with horns as long as her forearm. The blue light of its eyes is more intense than its brethren's. Its gaping mouth opens to—

"_**FUS RO DAH!" **_

For an instant she can feel herself flying through the air, and then it stops with a sickening crunch of what can only be bones breaking. Her head hits the stone wall hard enough that the shock kicks everything else from her mind, at least until she tries to breathe. Then her chest erupts with a stabbing pain that can only stem from broken ribs. Gasping shallowly, she lifts her arm—heavy, as though it's been tied down—and places her palm on her chest. Her mind is swimming, but she struggles to remember the words for a healing incantation. She needs to fix this, and quickly.

She's no healer, so the warmth of restoration magic grows to a scorching heat that wraps around her ribcage and back. It's the fever of the body healing itself at a thousand times the normal pace—she never could learn to do this without pain. Her work is agonizing, slow, and sloppy, but it's enough that when the burning subsides, she's able to inhale deeply and sit up. Cracking open her eyes, she sees the blurry orb of candlelight dancing above her, dancing and swaying and splitting into four or six partners. Underneath her are the shattered remains of a ceramic urn.

Not as bad as she'd thought, then.

The draugr lord has shambled down the last few steps, and J'zargo is already fighting it, sword drawn and a flame cloak swirling around his form. He doesn't seem to have been hurt by the Shout at all. Envy quickly gives way to gratefulness that at least he's able to keep it away from her. She struggles against the bruises lining her body and rises to her feet, charging up a quick firebolt. Her spells do little to stagger it, however, and J'zargo's sword strokes bounce off its thick armor. It's quickly clear that this monster is at least as strong as Saarthal's, possibly moreso.

J'zargo holds it off for some time, but makes an error when he steps back to cast. The draugr uses the opening for a powerful blow across his midsection that stuns him momentarily. With J'zargo no longer attacking, it makes a run for her. She grimaces and draws her sword, bracing for a fight. But she's barely started to swing when the draugr opens its mouth again. _**"ZUN HAAL VIIK!"**_ Suddenly she's clutching air, her weapon clattering to the ground somewhere behind her. She swears and throws up a ward in defense just as the ebony sword arcs toward her. The sword slams into the magical shield, making it shudder and send charged sparks of magicka into the air. She holds the ward until it starts to crack apart, and then braces her foot against the ground and throws her weight forward. Taken by surprise, the draugr stumbles back long enough for her to drop the ward and charge up a fireball. Knowing she can't survive much longer in a swordfight, she fuels it with as much magicka as she can muster. When it stumbles towards her again, she looses it as his feet.

The resulting blast floors her, literally. It's bigger than she expected, far too forceful for such a close space, and it bowls her onto her back once more. When she clambers to her feet, she sees that the corpse's legs have been blown clear off at the knees. J'zargo rushes over to stab it through the eye, and the body falls still.

Despite the pain and the stress from the fight, she feels a miniature sense of satisfaction and pride crawl through her. She's grown more powerful than she thought.

"_Look at that. You guys might even be stronger than old Sebastian."_ Oh, she's going to wring that dog's furry little neck. She wipes her dirty gloves across the soot on her face and sighs, then draws a vial from her pack. Powdered creep cluster and red mountain flowers, a poor man's magicka potion. She downs it after some struggle. It's uneven and oddly-textured—she did, after all, brew it herself—but she instantly feels some of her magicka re-ignite within her.

"I suppose that was the guardian," she says, replacing the empty vial. "Are there any other monsters you'd like to wake before we leave here, Barbas? Some Daedric companions, or perhaps a dragon?"

"_Why, do you?"_

They continue up the endless stairs, sweeping up any valuables they can find. She inspects the draugr's ebony sword longingly, but it's heavy and clumsy, too unbalanced for her thin elven frame. She stows it on her back anyway. Ebony weapons fetch a high price from blacksmiths; she can enchant it and sell it.

More notable is what she doesn't find. There is no word wall here, even though the whispers seem to grow stronger with each draft. The drafts—there must be another exit here. Eventually, she spots it at the top of one final staircase.

Outside, a fierce wind blows thick flakes into her eyes, and her boots sink into knee-deep snow. The sky is as grey as stone, and she sees the familiar outline of a word wall against it, lit by a burning brazier. She walks in a daze around the snow-covered altar and to the engravings. As before, one set of runes is shining, the light and the snow swirling together in a blurry cloud. Still concussed from the fight before, her head pounds as the tendrils reach out and force themselves into her mind.

_Nah_, fury. Not like the berserker rage of an Orc, but the power of a cyclone, a storm…

She hears her name being called from a great distance, but before she can respond, something drives through her left shoulder and pins her against the stone. She looks down to see a cruel spear of ice protruding from her armor, glistening bright red with her blood. It doesn't hurt, but even as that occurs to her, her knees give out and she falls onto her side in the snow. She can see, just barely, a figure levitating above the supposed altar, its tattered skin and robes gleaming with magical armor.

No, not another one, not now! Haven't they already destroyed the guardian of this barrow? Mother, Prince and Spinner, what _is_ that thing? She raises a ward just in time to deflect another ice spike. In response, it sweeps its arm in a lazy circle, conjuring a billowing pillar of wind and ice that rushes towards her. The storm shatters her feeble ward and overtakes her. The tiny shards of ice rip away her hood and slice the exposed skin on her face, freezing her armor and sapping the heat from her body. She reaches out with her good arm and crawls forward blindly until she grasps the corner of the stone wall, and then pulls herself around it.

Behind relative cover, she lies still for a moment, her whole body shaking from exertion and the cold. The effects of her shoddy healing job are already starting to show; her ribs are aching and burning where they've been sealed together improperly. Slow, semi-frozen drops of blood are leaking from the wound in her shoulder, where the ice spike is crystallizing the flesh around it. And she wonders again _why_, why she has to do this, instead of growing fat and lazy and stupid in a tower of the College. She's worked for that, and that's what she deserves, not to be laid out in the snow by an ancient lich in some gods-forsaken mountain in Skyrim.

"_Because we must never hide from our duty."_ If she shuts her eyes she can still imagine her mother standing there, donning her Imperial armor and lecturing Indrele one last time about responsibility and honor. Tears of frustration and pain prick at her eyelids, and she abruptly shoves herself upright. She's better than this.

A yelp and hiss from the battleground tell her that J'zargo isn't faring any better than her. He's always been terrible at wards. She forces herself to move again, to pull off her backpack and shuffle through it with her numb fingers. With her shortage of coin and souls, she only has three scrolls to choose from—one to cure disease, one for slowfall, and one inscribed with a fire rune. She takes this last one and unrolls it, pressing it flat against the ground. The neat pattern of circles and Daedric letters glows red and begins to burn away at the parchment. When the ashes dissipate, the rune has been transposed to the snow underneath.

She stands up unsteadily, leaning against the stone for support. Breathing is painful again and her legs wobble with each step, but she makes her way to the other side of the wall. Peering around the corner, she sees J'zargo on his knees near the sarcophagus, channeling golden healing energy into a gaping wound in his side. Barbas is snapping at the lich's heels and growling, dodging each spear sent his way. The dog is keeping its attention, at least—its back is turned to her.

She sucks in a ragged breath and tries to focus. She only has one shot at this. Dragon shouts are like spells, in that they require meditation and contemplation. But her own mind is useless here. Instead, she turns to the eldritch bubble inside her, where the souls of Mirmulnir and Sahloknir and the knowledge of the Greybeards thrash about like fish trapped in a tiny net. She grasps that power with her own, funneling it to her core. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, but she forces a deep breath. Her lungs fill with a force that threatens to tear her apart from the inside, and finally, she lets go.

"_**FUS RO DAH!"**_

Her Shout is just as loud as the draugr lord's. It bends and distorts the air with visible shockwaves that rush both Barbas and the abomination, sending them tumbling through the snow and to her rune. Her aim is true, thank Azura, and the moment they cross the lines of the circle, it explodes. The fireball detonates with a bang and the snow around it is instantly vaporized, shrouding everything in mist. J'zargo, newly healed, takes this as his cue and charges in, swinging his sabre and firing a line of flames from his other hand. Drained, Indrele sinks once again to her knees. The scene fades in and out with bursts of steam and shimmering, superheated air. When the mist finally clears, the lich is lying motionless on the ground, its charred body crumbling slowly into ash. J'zargo is standing above it, triumphant. Barbas is nowhere to be seen.

With the dregs of her magicka, she activates the weakest of her flame cloak spells. It's more heat than fire, not enough to burn, but enough to ward her from the wind and the biting cold for a few precious minutes. It licks at the icicle spear, melting it into nothing and unstopping the flow of blood. She yanks the glove off of her right hand with her teeth and fumbles with the straps of her breastplate, but her fingers are waxy and numb and can't find the clasps. After a few moments she lets her hand fall and leans against the sarcophagus, panting. "J'zargo, I need…"

He appears in front of her as suddenly as ever, even though he's limping and clutching the wound in his side. "You fight curious enemies. J'zargo has never seen such a foe."

"Shut up. I need a healing poultice and I can't do it." J'zargo sighs theatrically and squats beside her. She feels his claws tug at the buckles until they come loose and the breastplate slides off. He pulls it away roughly, jerking her shoulder and making her cry out. "Sheogorath! Watch what you're doing, cat." He mutters something in his primitive beast tongue, but keeps working. She unties her cloak and the furs and tunic underneath it, pulling them down to reveal the hole in her shoulder. It's uglier than it feels, a purple-red puncture surrounded by frostbitten skin. The cold and shock keep the pain down for now, but blood is pouring out steadily. She shuts her eyes and winces as J'zargo applies the salve, a pungent mixture of juniper berries and garlic. It stings almost as badly as her own healing spells, but immediately, she can feel the skin and muscle knitting back together. The worst of it should be healed within a day.

Her flame cloak sputters and dies, exposing her to the wind once again. She shivers as J'zargo finishes wrapping bandages around her torso and helps her back into her furs, sodden with sweat, blood, and melted snow. When her breastplate is replaced and her glove back on, she grips the edge of the sarcophagus and drags herself back to her feet.

Across the battlefield, she sees a pile of ashes where the abomination fell, but no sign of the dog. "I think I killed Barbas," she mutters through chattering teeth. J'zargo snorts. She shuffles through the snow to what's left of the corpse. Its body and robes have disintegrated, but there's something lying on top of the pile, gleaming. Tentatively, she bends down and picks it up. The moment her fingers brush the surface, she feels the powerful shock of ancient magic—strong alteration, with a trace of illusion. She'll have to wait until she finds an enchanting table to learn the specifics, unless… Perhaps it's the blood loss or the exhaustion that makes her so reckless, but after a moment of thought, she draws back the hood of the mask and pulls it over her head. It reeks of centuries of gravedust and rot, and she gags, but she forgets about the smell as soon as the magic infuses her body. Waterbreathing, a fortification to brace her shoulders and back, and _something_ that touches her charisma.

Beneath it all, she hears a whisper that reaches out to her like the call of a word. _Volsung_. It's the name of the mask's previous owner.

There's something special about ancient artifacts. They don't always have the strongest or most practical enchantments—in particular, whoever enchanted this mask must have had a _very_ unusual purpose in mind—but they have character and history, and the well of their power runs deep. With time and study, a skilled enchanter can draw out their full potential.

"_Can we get going?"_ She jumps and looks down through the slits of the mask to see Barbas. He's sitting at her feet and wagging his tail, as though nothing has happened. His fur isn't even singed.

She opens and shuts her mouth a few times, but can't think of a proper response. She settles on a curt nod, and draws the fur hood of her cloak over the mask of Volsung. Though she's not looking forward to a horseback ride with her shattered ribs, they still have a ways to go.

* * *

Compared to the liches of Volskygge, Sebastian Lort is no challenge at all. Once they get past his atronachs, he's just a doddering old man driven mad by forces he couldn't control. It only takes a few lightning bolts to bring him to his knees in surrender.

The Rueful Axe is a wicked thing of sharp ebony and shining silver. It's been placed on an altar almost reverently, surrounded by flickering candles. Though she's not fond of axes, Indrele concedes that it's a thing of beautiful craftsmanship.

"You think he's really going to take the axe and let us go, just like that? 'No strings attached'?"

"Of course," replies J'zargo. "We have a deal."

"The deal is for him to take back this damned mutt, and what good does that do us? We don't get anything out of it. But of course, it still counts as a deal, so it binds us to him anyway."

J'zargo traces one claw thoughtfully over the whorls of the Axe. "If the elf believes we will be damned either way, perhaps she was a fool to come here in the first place."

She bristles, but holds her tongue. Barbas speaks up. _"Don't worry about it. Clavicus has his own sense of honor; he's just really peculiar about it. Just don't let him trick you into changing the deal."_

"That's not true." They each turn to see the wizard propping himself up on his hands. "You know you can't trust him. He's like any other one of _them_. He'll feed off your misery until he gets bored of you, and then he'll send his new servants to take back his toys."

Indrele fixes the man with a cold stare. "I am no servant of Clavicus Vile."

"You say that now, but you don't understand. He's a manipulative bastard. He'll get you in the end, you'll see."

"That may be. Even so, I will never let him talk me into murdering my own kin." That does it. Lort's face snaps and contorts in rage, and lightning begins to arc between his hands. Before he can release it, she drives her steel boot into his chest and brings her sword down on his neck, ending his miserable life.

She holds no pity for him. If a man is not clever enough to deal with a Daedric Prince, then he should stick to fruitless worship of the Divines.

* * *

"_Almost seems a shame to give a weapon like that away, doesn't it? I suppose I could be persuaded to let you keep it—but only if you use the axe to kill Barbas. Simple as that."_

J'zargo fixes Barbas with a predatory stare, hefting the axe in his hands. The dog yelps in protest.

"_Wait a second! What did I tell you about changing the deal? Kill me, and you get to keep the axe—but give it to him, and the Masque of Clavicus Vile will be yours."_

"_Go ahead and spoil my fun, why don't you? Why do I even keep you around? …Ah, right."_

She knows J'zargo has heard of the artifact. It's a helm that endows the wearer with the legendary persuasive power of the Prince himself, certainly more useful than a clunky axe. Indeed, J'zargo's expression calms, and he holds the axe out towards the altar. "No. This one will deliver the axe to Lord Vile, as agreed."

"_Hmph, you're no fun at all either. And you, elf, you're still quite attached to your soul?"_

"Very."

"_Pity. I had just the right place for it, too. Come along then, mutt. There's a whole world just waiting for me."_

* * *

They uncover another amulet fragment in the barrow known as Geirmund's Hall. J'zargo may be a terrible scholar, but when an artifact is on the line, his skill at research is uncanny. According to him, the third and final piece will be in Folgunthur, a ruin in the marshes north of Morthal. She groans at the thought of visiting that dreary place again. "I suppose you'll be headed there, then."

"No." His response stops her.

"You want to go somewhere else first? I'm not going to follow you indefinitely until you finally decide to get this done."

"You do not need to follow. Khajiit will go where you go."

She struggles to comprehend the sudden turn of events, which is made no clearer by his damned speech pattern. "Do you mean to say that you're following _me_ now? Why?"

"Vile says that you are powerful. Powerful enough, perhaps, for J'zargo to have quite a bit of fun." He chuckles and turns his head so that the twisted eyes of the Masque stare right at her. "Dragonborn."


	3. Vozaan

_"And then the sixth spirit appeared, the Black Hands Mephala, who taught the Velothi at the beginning of days all the arts of sex and murder._ _Its burning heart melted the eyes of the netchiman's wife and took the egg from her belly with six cutting strokes."_

- _The 36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 2_

There's a fire within her that churns and roils like the magma under Dagoth-Ur. With each passing day it grows stronger, struggling to burst free in her every waking moment. Slowly, slowly, she can feel it consuming her, changing her. She fights back through iron will and stubborn denial. She's no different than she was yesterday, or the day before. But yesterday, would she have slain a cowering bandit quite so readily? Before taking the dragons' souls, was she ever so aroused by the sight and smell of burning flesh?

The frightful thing is that with each slip of control, she seems to grow a little stronger. Fire and lightning erupt from her fingertips with blazing fury. Her sword strokes gain the uncanny strength of a madman. Her _Thu'um_ grows loud enough to tear foes to pieces and echo off the mountainside. And it feels _wonderful_.

Through sleepless nights she sits beside the campfire and watches the flames eat the logs down to nothing but embers and ash.

* * *

Almost immediately after she sets foot in Whiterun, she receives a letter from Jarl Balgruuf that invites her to dine with him at Dragonsreach. She knows that he's probably eager to hear about her training with the Greybeards. After all, she hasn't seen him since she first left for High Hrothgar, and for good reason: though Balgruuf seems to like her, the rest of his court doesn't share that view. Proventus considers her uncultured swine. Hrongar sees her as a mockery of his people's traditions. Irileth has never quite forgiven her for accidentally _Fus_-ing Balgruuf into a wall, and Farengar knows her opinion of court mages. Their company is uncomfortable at best.

But she can't afford to alienate the one jarl who tolerates her. And so she spends her evening among royalty.

She doesn't belong here. Granted, she hasn't belonged anywhere since she stepped out of Cyrodiil and became an "outlander," "grey-skin," "barbarian"—and now "Dragonborn." But sitting among the pure-bred sons and daughters of Skyrim, it's painfully obvious. Every one of her features marks her as an outsider, from her pockmarked grey skin and motley accent to her spiraling crimson tattoos and single stripe of hair. Even next to Irileth, she appears as something wild and foreign. However, the customs of elite politics dictate that they ignore this mammoth in the room, cap their simmering distaste for one another, and make polite small talk until the night is through.

"I made the journey to High Hrothgar once, in the days of my youth," Balgruuf is saying. "The Greybeards trained me in the Way of the Voice. Though I was unable to learn to Shout, my time there was enlightening. Perhaps they spoke of me?"

"Yes, of course." Had they? The jarl had been the farthest thing from her mind while she meditated on that summit. Leave it to nobility to inject themselves into every conversation, as though they hold any importance outside their ragged city walls.

"The court would be interested in seeing how your _Thu'um_ has progressed," he continues. "Perhaps later tonight you could demonstrate what you've learned."

She smiles falsely and bites her tongue. It's such a silly little request that it's almost insulting. What does he expect her to do, _Fus_ a pile of silverware off a table? Walk through walls with _Feim_? Or maybe he wants to time how quickly she can _Wuld_ from one end of the hall to the other. This is the Voice, a legendary power that can cripple dragons and kings, and Balgruuf wants it used to perform cheap parlor tricks.

_This is what you are to them._ The thought slithers unbidden into her mind. _They see you as a curiosity, something to be studied and held at arm's length, but whose full power is never to be trusted. Like a sabre cat in a cage._

"Ulfric Stormcloak trained there as well, you know. Did they say anything about him?" Proventus has that look all Imperials seem to get when they scheme: a forcibly relaxed smile and casual posture, given away by the knotted brow above his beady eyes.

"Proventus, I'll have no talk of Stormcloaks at this table."

"Apologies, Jarl, but if they told her anything, it could be quite useful. What about the dragons, did they know the reason for their return?"

"Only that it's prophecy, and that I have some role to play in what's to come." Proventus' expression slackens and he returns to his food. She knows he has no interest in anything else she might say because _this is all he thinks you're good for—gathering intelligence that might advance his political career. Observe and report, run his errands and kill his monsters. You can be his courier, mercenary, or spy, but never anything more than his tool._

"I would very much like to know what you've learned from these dragons," Farengar says. "When you absorb your souls, you gain their memories, yes? If only a learned mind could access such a thing."

The veiled insult doesn't go unnoticed. "You're welcome to the contents of my head, Farengar. Why not cast a memory recording charm now, so that you can sort through them later at your leisure?" She sees his lips tighten ever so slightly. Of course he doesn't know a lick of mysticism; he's a poorly-trained, pitiful excuse for a wizard. Her mind is safe from him.

_But wouldn't it be fun if he could look inside? Let the man see your memories and nightmares. Let him share in the chaos and sadness and pain. Watch them tear his mind apart, and then, perhaps, just for one night, he'll feel the same things you do._

The conversation continues into meaningless banter, sentences fading in and out like waves beating against a shore. For all their flaws, the court is remarkably adept at small talk. Sanitized anecdotes taper seamlessly into false sentiments and niceties, gingerly stepping around anything upsetting or real. The topic of Lydia's death doesn't come up once, though it hangs over her like a headsman's axe. But no matter how pleasant they act, she knows that Proventus is still calculating what he might pull from her later this evening, Farengar is still thinking of more quips to deride her, and Irileth is still waiting for her to snap and try to kill the jarl with a dinner fork. She swallows and tries to push aside the whispers that encourage her to _tell them, tell them the truth of what you've seen, about the sense of sheer draconic cruelty that's settled ever so softly in your mind, what it feels like to be tortured, or burned alive. And just for a moment they'll drop their masks and show something __**real—**_

She shoots upright with a gasp, her chair clattering to the ground behind her. Around her the faces of the court leer at her, warped and surreal. Directly across from her, one of the jarl's sons is spearing his venison with violent strokes and staring at her in-between with odd, dark eyes.

"Is there a problem, Dragonborn?" Balgruuf's voice reaches her distorted and distant, as though she's hearing it from underneath a lake. She shakes her head once, then again, more forcefully.

"No, I… I… Excuse me." With that, she steps back from the table and hurries away in a random direction.

She doesn't stop until she finds herself in a room that's free of servants and nobles. It's dimly lit and cluttered with brooms and buckets; probably some storage area underground. She leans her forehead against the cool masonry of the wall and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"You hear her too, don't you?"

She spins around to see the dark-eyed child from before standing a few paces behind her. "Boy, what are you doing here?"

"She told me to find you—the Whispering Lady did." He rocks back on his heels, clasping and unclasping his hands at his sides. She looks him up and down once more and finally places his face.

"Aren't you the one who accused me of 'licking your father's boots'?" She struggles to remember his name; something with an 'N,' maybe. The boy scowls as soon as she mentions his father; she keeps talking. "Who was it that sent you after me? Irileth?"

"No. I told you, it was the Whispering Lady."

She pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. The child is seeing specters and now she has to deal with it. "And who, pray tell, is the Whispering Lady?"

"I don't know her name. She speaks to me through a door in the basement. She tells me secrets…"

"I've no time for your games," she begins, but he interrupts.

"It's not a game!" For a brief second his eyes dilate and his lips curl to reveal teeth like some predator, but then she blinks and he's a normal child once more. "She's real, and I know you've heard her."

She ponders his words: the 'Whispering Lady.' She's heard whispers ever since the events of the Western Watchtower, ancient dragons trying to get through, but they've never sounded anything like what ran through her head tonight. No—it doesn't mean anything, other than that she's going mad, and now this poor child is as well. "Tell your lady that I won't be speaking to any ghosts tonight. I've had quite enough of this castle's inhabitants already." And she _still_ has the rest of the dinner service to get through.

As she leaves the room, the boy calls after her. "If you change your mind, you can hear her from behind a door in the basement. She wants to see you. Don't keep her waiting."

Back in the main hall, she takes her seat once again, though she wants nothing more than to leave. The court graciously refrains from commenting on her disappearance, though she knows they'll be gossiping after hours. Balgruuf does apologize for anything inappropriate his son (Nelkir) might have said after chasing her; evidently, he's been "troubled" for some time now, and Balgruuf would very much appreciate knowing why, if she happened to find anything out. She only nods and remain silent.

The boy remains absent for the rest of the service, as do the odd animated thoughts that had been flitting through her mind. Nelkir's words stay with her, though. What if there truly is another presence in this castle, one that has the power to affect her mind? Is she being stalked by some demon? It would be irresponsible to let this go unchecked. It doesn't mean she believes the story about a lady behind a door; she's only preserving her own safety.

When the dinner service finally ends, she slips away from the table, declining Balgruuf's repeated requests for a demonstration as politely as she can, and heads down the stairs to the basement. As she wanders through the maze of corridors, she wonders how she's expected to find one door out of every cupboard, cabinet, and storage closet here. She resigns herself to shuffling around the entire floor, putting her ear to various things and earning suspicious glances from the servants. Finally, she ends up in an abandoned, dusty alcove with an ancient wood door, one that's possibly as old as the castle itself. As soon as she lays her eyes on it, she knows somehow that _this_ must be the door Nelkir spoke of. She draws her fingers down the smooth wood of the door, shuts her eyes, and listens.

And the voice comes.

"_At last. I've been waiting for you, my child."_ The words are soft, tickling the very edge of her hearing, but they ring clearly in her mind. It reminds her of the word walls, the way it passes by her ears to speak directly to her head. But it's gentler—there's no push, no struggle for control. She's still herself, there's just another _self_ inside her.

"Who are you? Why did you wish to speak with me?" She murmurs the words out loud, though this thing is probably already inside her head and reading her every thought.

There's a soft hiss like an intake of air. _"The boy did not know my name, but I expected more from you. Surely you do not need me to tell you who I am."_

"I'm sorry, but I don't—"

"_Shh."_ Indrele's lips tingle as though a finger has pressed against them. _"Think deeply. You may find that you already know."_

She does as she's commanded, and thinks. The hooks remain in her mind, guiding her thoughts. At first she sees only darkness, but then images begin to take form.

…_the violet petals of a nightshade plant against brown, shriveled grass… two bare bodies entwined, moans of pleasure cut off by the rasp of a blade and a gurgle of blood… a dead scrib bound in silk and hanging from a huge, intricate web. Death that comes on eight dark, spindly legs…_

She draws back from the contact with a sharp inhale. "My lady. Forgive me, I did not expect to find you… Here, of all places."

"_No matter. There is something you must do for me."_

"What would you ask of me?" Her voice has dropped to match Mephala's.

"_I have been using the boy for some time, but there are some things he cannot do. You will be the new instrument of my will. Behind this door, a piece of my power has been locked away. Even my eyes cannot see past the seals. Release it, and it will be yours to wield."_

"So I must get past this door?" She spreads her fingers and probes the enchantments on the door, only to reel back in shock when she feels a potent magical ward.

"_Yes. The jarl trusts few, and they will be his undoing. The dark child knows of whom I speak."_ The voice is fading away now, but just before it vanishes, it leaves her with one final command. _"Do not disappoint me." _

* * *

"That door is special. Only two people have keys to it, Farengar and my father," Nelkir tells her. There's a brief pause before he adds, "Nobody will notice if Farengar went missing, I promise you."

And Indrele would miss Farengar least of all. More than bandits, merchants, and politicians, she hates court mages. They're a shame to her profession, pitiful excuses for scholars content to sit in the lap of a jarl and deal with agriculture and skeever infestations until they drop dead of boredom and old age. But annoying as Farengar may be, she doesn't want to kill him; Skyrim needs as many minds on the dragon problem as they can muster. Indrele says this much to Nelkir, and he pouts.

"But you're the Dragonborn. You must kill people all the time."

"Only when they try to kill me first." Although if she were a little bit better at stealth, she can think of a few people that would have their throats slit in their sleep.

"_Father_," Nelkir spits the word, "used to kill people. Not anymore. Now he needs his servants to do it for him."

"There's no shame in ordering an execution." Oh, if only the Morag Tong could extend its reach to Skyrim, how much easier her life would be. But she doesn't imagine that Balgruuf even reads the names of the people he sentences to death. These Nords and their delusive sense of honor—although this boy has the heart of a Dunmer or an Orc. He could make a great councilor in Morrowind someday.

The thought of the assassins' guild leaves her questioning her choice. There's an entire organization dedicated to murder so that Mephala might revel in its glory. Now if Indrele is acting on her behalf, shouldn't she take this opportunity for bloodshed? She can't quite talk herself into it, however. She rationalizes that Mephala's love of treachery runs deeper than petty violence. Farengar is nobody, and his death would go unnoticed. Whether or not he lives is irrelevant to her task. But getting his key will leaving him alive will require secrecy, finesse, and deft fingers, none of which she has. Fortunately, magic can substitute for almost all of them.

Unfortunately, that means going to the cat for assistance.

"Oh? J'zargo thought the elf was too _smart_ to barter with Daedra." He quirks an eyebrow, a smile playing on the corners of his muzzle.

"Don't start with that. You _know_ this is different, you know—" She cuts herself off as one of the caravan guards' ears flicks in her direction, and lowers her voice. "There are some Daedra that are to be worshipped, and others that are to be avoided, and just because you don't care about the difference doesn't mean we're all fools."

"Yes, the 'good Daedra' and the 'bad Daedra.' This one knows of them. But how can one know for certain which Prince belongs to which category?"

"Are you questioning my people's faith?" She feels her fingers tracing the outline of Azura's Star in a leather pouch at her waist, though she doesn't know how she might use it to support her argument. Bludgeon him with it, maybe?

"Not at all. J'zargo believes that when one is called by a god, one should always answer, no matter which god it may be. But it is as you said before. One must be ready to face the consequences."

She watches a guard with striped fur stir a pot on the fire. She can smell it from here, something pungent and sickly sweet. She's not naïve enough to think that there will be no consequences from this. Swearing one's service to a god isn't to be done lightly. But she's worshipped the Reclamations since she was a babe. In her childhood there had been yearly pilgrimages with other Dunmer families to each of the three shrines, offerings made of glow dust, Daedra hearts, and nightshade, always with the hope to gain their favor—and now she had another chance. To turn away now would be worse than blasphemy.

"I am prepared."

* * *

A scroll of silencing, three invisibility potions, soft-soled shoes, and a new, thinner cloak made of black cloth that seems to fade into the shadows. These are her tools for infiltrating Dragonsreach; with her funds, they're all she can afford. She'd commissioned J'zargo to scribe the scroll, and the rest of the equipment came from the Khajiit merchant, who had just happened to have a small arsenal of thieves' tools in his wagon. All for legitimate purposes, he'd assured her.

She reviews the layout of Dragonsreach in her mind. The path from Farengar's study to the basement door is simple enough; most of the guards are stationed closer to the royal family. But there are infinitely many things that could go wrong.

That night, when the moons hang high above Whiterun, she leaves her room at the Bannered Mare, supplies in hand. She stays in the shadows, running between alleys until she reaches the great stone steps. Guards patrol here, but as always, they are unprepared for magic. The only illusion spell she knows, a weak personal muffling spell, hides her footfalls, her scarf traps the mist from her breath, and the first invisibility potion makes her disappear completely from view. She's absolutely undetectable as she falls into stride a few steps behind the first guard. When she reaches the top of the stairs and the large wooden door, she waits for the guard to turn and walk back down the steps. Once his head disappears from view, she activates the scroll of silence, targeting the ancient creaking hinges. Now she only needs to open the door and pray no guards inside see her doing it. She swallows the second potion and pushes.

Incredibly, no guards are even looking her way when she slips inside. She can't believe her luck. Surely they can't always be this lax? Or maybe they are, and Riften's Thieves' Guild could get back on its feet if its members would only learn a few spells.

She shuffles along the walls like a mudcrab, being sure to keep her breathing steady and avoid bumping against any furniture. The invisibility wears off just as she slips inside Farengar's laboratory. This will be the hardest part; while court mages are weak excuses for real wizards, they generally know enough to use wards. She reaches out towards his bedroom door to probe for magical auras, but pulls back in surprise when she finds none. There's not even a simple alarm spell or a trace of an elemental rune—and when she tries the handle, it turns easily in her hands. Is Farengar that complacent? Or is this a trap, and he's waiting for her inside so he can have her arrested for trespassing?

Whatever the reason, she's come too far to turn back. Indrele steels her nerves and pushes the door open. The room is dark, but the dim light leaking in from the main hall shows Farengar on his bed, asleep. She gives a quiet sigh of relief and creeps closer to his prone form. In the silence, her pulse beats in her ears, and her hands shake with anticipation. She wonders what excuse she'll give if he wakes up and calls for the guards—_no ,_ she has to stay focused. She scans his body a few times over until she catches sight of a thin cord around his neck. Fishing it out slowly reveals a key hidden under his nightshift. She draws her dagger, the muffling spell suppressing the whisper of steel, and cuts it loose. There's a twitch from Farengar, and she freezes in place, but he makes no further movement. She's gotten away with it.

The difficult part is over. She feels the tension leave her body as she swallows the final, most potent invisibility potion. It should give her just enough time to get to and from the basement and escape through the front door. She slips along the walls again and into the kitchen, moving more quickly now. It's almost laughably easy to pass through the flickering shadows and down the stairs into the basement, but once she shuts the door behind her, things grow more difficult. It's almost pitch-black, and when she tries to retrace her steps, she trips over brooms and clutter. It takes several minutes to arrive at the correct door and feel for the lock, precious minutes that go against her strict schedule. She slips the key into the lock, praying that it's the right one, and turns. There's a click, and the ward dissipates.

She enters the room, but in the total darkness, she can't even see what she came here for. In frustration, she decides to risk calling up a candlelight spell. The time it took to get here means that the invisibility spell has nearly worn off anyway, and she's sure she can outrun a few inattentive guards to the exit. The brightness of the spell burns like a flash of lightning, but when she blinks away the spots swimming in front of her eyes, she sees the artifact lying on a table in front of her. It's a long and graceful Akaviri-style blade, the same style as the one she'd carried until the Thalmor had stolen it. But her old sword could never have matched the beauty of this one. It's carved from a single piece of black ebony and inlaid with intricate gold designs, and its flawless surface shimmers with a visible magical aura.

She's only heard of this in legends. Mephala's famed Ebony Blade, a sword of unimaginable power, granted only to champions of the Webspinner herself. And now it will be in her possession. She reaches out to grasp the hilt, hands trembling, but stops when she sees a thin leather folio on the table before it. She frowns. It's irrelevant to her mission, she should take the blade and be gone from here—but she's never been able to deny her curiosity. She picks up the folio and opens it to reveal a yellowing page of parchment stamped with the Jarl of Whiterun's official seal.

_To anyone reading this: BEWARE THIS BLADE_

_It is hoped that the only people having access to this room should be the Jarl of Whiterun and his trusted wizard. If anyone else is reading this, please understand the magnitude of your folly, turn around, and never even speak of this room or this blade to anyone._

_It has corrupted and perverted the desires of great men and women. Yet its power is without equal—to kill while your victim smiles at you. Only a daedra most foul could have concocted such a malevolent and twisted weapon. But it appears that all who wield it end up with the crazed eyes of those wild men who roam the hills chattering with rabbits._

_It is not to be trifled with. Not even the hottest fires of the Skyforge could melt it; indeed the coals themselves seemed to cool when it was placed within. We cannot destroy it, and we would not have it fall into the hands of our enemies. So we keep it, hidden, dark and deep within Dragonsreach, never to be used._

_Woe be to any who choose to take it._

Of course the Nords would fear this blade. They're frightened by anything that cannot be dealt with through brute force, from mathematics and literature to magic and Daedra. She's better than that. Her people are born of the Daedra, and to fear them is to turn away from their own heritage. With that thought, she wraps her hand around the sword.

The ancient enchantment flows against her palm, thrumming hungrily. It's diminished, she can feel, perhaps from being kept here for so long, but as long as a single spark remains, she can bring it back to life. She _must_. Mephala has entrusted this blade to her, and it is her duty to restore it to full power.

She turns towards the door, but stops abruptly with a short gasp. Somebody else is standing there, with his own orb of candlelight illuminating his face.

Farengar.

"You aren't as stealthy as you think, little elf." Dammit, she'd done everything right; how had he noticed her? Was there a ward hidden somewhere else in his workshop, or had she just been too clumsy when cutting the key? "I suggest you put that sword back and come with me."

"This blade does no good here," she retorts, trying to throw together a convincing argument. "It corrupts the jarl's children while it wastes away in this basement. Let me take it from you; I can put its power to better use."

"No. It cannot be trusted with anyone. It must remain here."

"And what are you going to do to ensure that, hedge wizard?" she spits. "If I can kill a dragon, what chance might you possibly stand to stop me?"

She takes his ensuing silence for assent and takes a step towards the door. Just an instant too late, she spots his palms dancing with electricity, and before she can react, he lifts his hands and fires a bolt of lightning into the center of her chest. The jolt throws her against the wall, but the sparks make her muscles seize and she retains hold of the sword. For several seconds her body convulses painfully, but her birthsign absorbs the worst of it, as it always has. She expects this to go on for some time, but abruptly, it ends. Farengar, she realizes, was too soft to throw another attack while she was down.

Indrele stands upright and sees him start to ready another spell. "Is that it?" she grunts, shaking the last of the twitches from her body. "I've seen bandits who made better mages than you. Step aside."

"You're dealing with forces beyond your control. That blade has driven many men to commit dark acts."

"Weak men."

"Good, strong men. Do you think we would have locked it away if we thought any of Whiterun's warriors could control it? It corrupts any man from the moment they first wield it."

"Any human!" she practically shrieks. There's no time for this; what if guards are coming down as they speak? "Your kind doesn't understand how to work with Daedra. Not all of us are so simple or small-minded."

Another moment of tense silence passes between them, and then Farengar lifts his hands again. He's not convinced. He'll fight her to the end for the chance to lock this sword back into a dark closet _away from the mortal web of secrets and betrayal, where it may sow the seeds of acrimony and envy and feed on their harvest of chaos and death. He would take this from us, but __**we will not be stopped by one arrogant mortal.**_

She dodges to the side just as the bolt leaves his hand, and then charges. She's upon him in a second, thrusting the Ebony Blade forward. The keen edge slips between his ribs as softly and smoothly as a whisper, sinking in all the way to the hilt with hardly a push. His eyes go wide with shock as his body begins to feel the injury—but they don't lose focus like some dying men's do. They remain on hers, transfixed. As she holds the blade there she can feel some sort of _power_ seeping out, the very essence of life, spiraling up the sword and hilt and into her own soul. Startled, she yanks the blade back to her. The energy dissipates and Farengar slumps onto the ground. Blood pools rapidly around the body and seeps into the leather of her shoes. She takes a step back, her heart and head pounding.

"_Well done."_ The smooth voice of Mephala reaches her again, far clearer than before. _"Already you steep my blade in the blood of deception and murder. Can you feel it? It's finally waking, after being forced to sleep for so long."_

Indrele doesn't answer her goddess, nor does she linger to confirm that Farengar is dead. She only grips the sword tighter in her hands and runs. Through the basement, up the steps, past the baffled guards in the main hall who are almost too stunned to give chase. She sprints down the stairways of Dragonsreach and across the plazas of the Cloud and Wind Districts, not stopping even when her chest burns and she has to force the air into her lungs. Finally, when the windows of the castle are only dim lights on the horizon, she trips over a loose stone and her legs give out. Sapped of energy and breath, she can't find the strength to stand again. So she lies there on the cobbled road of some slum in Whiterun, hugging the blade to her chest and drifting in and out of consciousness until the sun starts to rise and some farmer kicks her awake.

As she staggers towards the gate, she drops her old broadsword into the river that connects to the sewers, letting it be carried away with the rest of the waste.

* * *

_Thanks to Lady of Dov for helping me work through a few things in this chapter._


End file.
